


Sleight of Hand

by CollingwoodGirl, PhryneFicathon



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Exhibitionism, F/M, Fluff, Hand porn, Illusions, Park Bench, Phryne in London, Roleplay, Smut, Vaginal Fingering, post-reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-23
Updated: 2018-02-23
Packaged: 2019-03-22 01:25:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13753323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CollingwoodGirl/pseuds/CollingwoodGirl, https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhryneFicathon/pseuds/PhryneFicathon
Summary: “... it’s all about the illusion. People want to believe what it is they think they see.”





	Sleight of Hand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [comeaftermejackrobinson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/comeaftermejackrobinson/gifts).



> Thank you to my prompter who gave me a lot of food for thought. I'm clearly a sucker for a period photograph. Cheers to @sarahtoo for the beta, and @mercurialbianca - if you squint, it might bear the teensiest resemblance to what I had planned. LOL.
> 
> Comments and constructive criticism are always welcome. Thank you for reading! XOXO, CG

A rustle of brittle brush breaks the peaceful silence like a flock of birds taking flight. Phryne glances up at the dishwater sky and removes the hook of her umbrella from her elbow to hold it firmly in her hand. The interlude between rains seems tenuous at best.

Still, she is undeterred.

The shabby little park hasn’t much to recommend it except for its proximity to the popular and crowd-pleasing Kew Gardens, which means she more or less has it entirely to herself. It is reason enough to overlook the sallow patches of grass for the respite it provides.

Despite its spaciousness, her parents’ Richmond estate has begun to feel crowded. Crowded with expectation and duty. With the spectres of ghosts and the woman she might have become. With the many sides of her father, and the all-too predictable moods of her mother.

Here, she can breathe.

Phryne makes her way along the curving, crumbling walk, toward a wrought-iron bench she’s come to think of as hers. In the stirring breeze, a crimson leaf cartwheels along the path and she watches it with all the delight of a curious child. So familiar are the steps after long months of treading them, the whole of her attention is fixed upon the leaf seemingly leading her to her destination.

When Phryne looks up, she finds _her bench_ occupied. The gentleman – she presumes it is a gentleman due to the shoes and the trousers, and the thickness of the hands that hold the _Daily Herald_ aloft – senses her.

“You lost? The posh gardens are across the Thames.”

She smiles wistfully at the broad accent, missing home terribly.

“Not lost. Do you mind if I join you?”

Beyond a twitch of his newspaper, the man gives no indication that her request either surprises or annoys him.

“Be my guest,” he replies placidly, compressing his body like the bellows of a squeezebox.

Her smile is unseen as she thanks him, and she sits – noticing that he’s made room not only for her but for a respectable distance to put between them. With gloved hands, she smooths her skirt over her knees. Phryne tries to relax. She closes her eyes and counts her breaths, but her mind keeps wandering to the man. The hair on her nape prickles.

It’s strange. She had no desire for company up until now, but the man’s lack of attention is perversely attractive.

Long minutes of silence pass, and it is clear the man intends to leave her in peace. She succumbs to reading the front of his newspaper as a distraction.

“They caught the thief!” she hisses suddenly.

The corner of the paper curls upon itself and the man peers rather dramatically over it. “Pardon?”

“The string of unsolved larcenies,” she explains as if he hadn’t already read it. “It says the police captured the perpetrator.”

“Not this lot,” he tsks disapprovingly. “Not one could find his arse with two hands and a torch. Probably tipped off by a good Samaritan.”

He is a handsome specimen, now that she has the chance to notice – solid build and dark hair – and the Collingwood in her approves of his mistrust in the local constabulary. She eyes him with interest.

“Strong feelings. Do you have a connection to the Metropolitan Police?”

“Hardly.” He rights the paper with a flick of his wrist. “Closest thing I have to a warrant is my book borrower’s card. Ask any librarian at Saint James’ Square.”

Phryne rolls her eyes with a soft huff, thinking of a certain haughty inspector behind a desk in Melbourne. It was just the sort of thing he might say.

“It’s not polite to stare, you know.” he reprimands.

Phryne is shaken, once again, by his voice. She misses Jack. The days since she’s seen him seem as an eternity, leaving a succulent, sweet ache to suffuse every fibre until she feels full to bursting. Ripe for the picking. And this man…

“I’m not staring,” Phryne insists in a voice too high to be believed by anyone who knows her well, “I’m reading.”

“Ah! How rude of me not to offer.” He pulls out the center of his paper, folding it lengthwise then crosswise before offering it to her. “Given your predilection for police matters, you might be interested in this.”

Her eyes fall on a story taking up nearly half a page, captioned, _Police Seek to Stem Growing Wave of Flagrant Public Immorality_. Phryne snatches the page from his hand and reads about a young couple who’d been charged with indecent behavior when a constable walked up on them in broad daylight.

“No wonder the robbery case wasn’t gaining any traction,” she observes. “They’re too busy arresting people for _kissing_.”

“Considering the three-pound fine, it must have been quite the scorcher.” He considers her carefully. “Though, a kiss bestowed by present company is surely worth ten.”

She bites her lip hard against the urge to prove it. “It gets rather lascivious after that,” she says, eyes back on the newsprint, searching.

“Looking for some _thing_ or some _one_?”

“Neither… No one…” She sighs in relief when Guy’s name is nowhere to be found among the arrests. “My cousin. His whims can run to the inadvisable.”

“I know the feeling.”

He tugs the newspaper from her hands and discards it, along with his own, leaving smudged trails of ink on the tips of her gloves. She notices with irritation and then forgives it completely as he turns the whole of his substantial attention to her.

“And what about you?” he continues. His voice is rough and soft at once. “You strike me as the sort of woman who would follow her desires wherever they led.”

Phryne doesn’t remember the last time she blushed. Not even Jack Robinson had managed it when he took her hand to waltz, disavowing a world without her in it. She’d thought herself immune. The power this man holds makes her heart skitter in her chest.

“So, I was right.” The man’s face draws lean and hungry as he regards the colour licking up her thin skin like flames. “Madam harbours exhibitionist tendencies.”

“It’s _miss_ , and even if I did, I’d have the good sense not to indulge them under the watchful eyes of the authorities.”

She isn’t sure why she said it, except that his darkened eyes seem to bore straight into her and extract the truth. The Germans would have paid him a princely sum for that talent.

“Hmm.” He hums noncommittally but does not take his eyes from her. “The chance one could be caught is part of the thrill. Still, snogging in the park is beyond the pale. I believe we already established the local authorities’ lack of investigative skill.” He drops his voice into an obscene murmur. “But one mouth seeking the intimacy of another for pleasure… for love? The act of kissing could never be mistaken for anything else.”

Realising she’s been staring at his lips for as long as he’s been talking about kissing, Phryne snaps her eyes up to meet his. It is a miscalculation. She should have remembered how susceptible she is to this game – she’d played it with Jack long enough. Her opponent’s sly smile tells her he senses her weakness.

“Are you familiar with the science and art of magic, miss?”

Phryne clears her throat of nerves. “I’ve dabbled.”

“Then you know it’s all about the _illusion_. People want to believe what it is they think they see.”

He shifts – an artless, graceful movement not unlike a cat stalking its prey – and rests his palm on her knee.

“To a passerby it merely looks as though I’m consoling you – a sleight of hand infinitely more satisfying than cheating at cards.” His expression remains impassive as his fingertips whisper round the curve, teasing into the join of her calf. His eyes alone are dark and heavy with desire. “Wouldn’t you say?”

A storm of emotions rushes through her breast. She can’t help but think of her buttoned-up inspector and imagine what might have happened if, instead of tormenting her with that horrid creature, he’d had the courage to put his hands on her like this.

The pang of regret doesn’t last long as the heat of his touch seeps through the wool, making her dizzy.

With a whimper, Phryne tugs at her skirt to draw up the hem. “I could never abide cards.” She has to chase her breath to speak as his hand advances along her thigh. “This ploy of yours might succeed at a distance. But won’t it be obvious up close?”

“Not if we play the part. I must appear concerned for your well-being and you must appear distraught.”

“I am,” she confesses, thinking of the kisses she cannot give or receive. She wants to hold him tight against her, push him down to her breast. Her hands ache from gripping the ironwork of the bench in restraint.

“So am I.” His mouth softens as his free hand smooths along the curves of her cheek down her throat and round her back. He pulls her closer. “Here, lean into my shoulder. That’s right. Take my handkerchief. The cries of pain and passion are second cousins.”

He smells warm and familiar, and she is grateful for the perfectly pressed square of thick cotton to muffle the soft moan that snags in her chest. Jack’s preferred scent might be unusual for the Antipodes but it isn’t an uncommon one here in England. She nuzzles into his neck to revel in the notes of vetiver, bergamot, and leather. But part of her laments the lack of gun oil and pencil shavings.

“Alright?” he asks, as fingers breach silk to sink into her centre.

She wants to meet him thrust for thrust, wrench her skirt up to her hips, and ride his hand until she flies apart from the utter wickedness of it all. But her body is wracked with the strain of holding still. A cramp twinges in the hip she cants off the bench to afford the man better access, and a veneer of sweat coats her skin. The tears in her eyes are very much real, but not for the reason anyone might think.

He soothes with the same devotion as he pleasures, with soft sounds and promises.

“There, there now,” he coos, beginning a rhythm of deep, slow strokes that tears sobs from her throat. “Bloody hell, you’re magnificent. You might as easily have lost your pussy as have my hand on it.”

The shabby gardens fade away as her eyes flutter shut. The wind is drowned out by the staccato of her pulse. She loses herself in their mingling scents. Her world collapses to the place where their skin meets, and Phryne keens.

“Jack!” she cries, growing rigid and gripping his lapel. She turns into the man’s embrace, her body still shuddering through her release.

“Oh dear,” a shrill voice clucks. “I didn’t mean to upset her again. The poor thing. It’s obvious she loves him dearly.”

Phryne comes to, and finds a pair of pale, unfamiliar eyes regarding her. They’ve obviously been discovered and she’s been oblivious to the whole thing. She calculates the time it would take to traverse the distance to where her motor car is parked on the high street. Even accounting for her heels, she’s sure she can make it before the police arrive.

“I’m so sorry—” Phryne starts, her voice ragged.

“Not at all, dear. I’m sure your Jack will make his way home soon,” the old woman assures her before turning her attention to the man. “You’ll take good care of her?”

“Of course,” he pledges, voice dripping with authority even as his fingers remain ensconced in the glove of her flesh, gently coaxing small aftershocks that manifest in her breath like a case of hiccups. “Thank you for your concern.”

“I feel as though I’m missing something,” Phryne admits once the woman is long out of earshot.

“You are. A cat, in fact.”

“I don’t have a cat.”

“She thinks you do.”

“Why would she think that?”

“Because it’s all I could come up with when she asked why you were so distressed.”

“I see—” Phryne whimpers as he removes his hand and wordlessly cleans his drenched fingers with his handkerchief. “I suppose I should thank you for preserving my character. And who is the _Jack_ she referred to?”

“Your imaginary cat, of course. At least, that’s what you cried out when she asked you its name.” He licks his lips as if tasting his next words. “Sounds like you missed him, too.”

Her lips part in a dreamy, faraway smile.

“I did. But no doubt Lady Balfour is very grateful for the safe return of her diamond parure. Mother said it’s all she had left of her fortune. All thanks to the anonymous tip, was it?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” he hedges. “I’m on holiday.”

The delight shimmering along the edges of Phryne’s incredulous laugh is well worth the lie.

“Well I, for one, feel far less guilty about leaving for meetings with bankers and solicitors, now I know you’re intent on making this town less dangerous.”

His lips twitch with amusement. “Hardly. I’m merely a detective with time on his hands and a low threshold for incompetent policing.”

“Your second best quality, Jack,” Phryne says fondly, taking his hands in hers. “Just after prestidigitation.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is the prompt  
> 


End file.
